Out on the field, our small cheer squad does their best to rile up the crowd. They cup their hands around their mouths, fling their heads back, and howl up at a sky.
I don’t remember ever seeing so many fans or hearing so much noise, but I think everyone has the same thought I have—a year from now this field could be silent, the white lines faded, the grass overgrown.
Anton nods at number 46 of the Titans. The guy is huge. At least six foot four and close to three hundred pounds.
“Ellison Green,” Anton says. “He’s gotten nineteen sacks this season alone.”
“Then don’t let him get you,” I say with a smile, but when I look over at our bench, I know our team is in trouble. We don’t have guys that size. To make the team look bigger than it really is, Coach Quimbley has suited up half a dozen freshmen, but we all know he’ll never send them out. Piled up together on a scale, those freshmen probably wouldn’t weigh as much as Ellison Green.
We head to our bench. Behind us are our fans. Ciara Johnson is in the front row—she’s laughing and clapping along with some cheer. I wave to her, but she doesn’t see me. I wish she did. I want her to yell out my name. Malcolm Busby! I feel like it would bring me some luck.
A few rows to the left, I see my mom sitting by herself. She waves to me. I wave back and wish my dad were in the stands too, but he couldn’t make it home this weekend. His supervisor needed him to work overtime.
Anton doesn’t even glance at the stands. He knows his parents aren’t there. His mom can’t watch, and his dad has taken a trucking job, so he’s gone most of the time just like mine.
“Let’s warm up your arm,” I suggest to Anton who is just sitting on the bench. He needs to get his energy up. Usually by this point he’s pumped up, moving up and down the bench talking to everyone.
We head to the sideline and throw the ball, but his throws are weak and off target.
“I feel like I’m walking through a swamp,” he says shaking his head.
“Remember when you played the day after you had the stomach flu? You started off slow but then threw three touchdowns. You had a great game,” I remind him.
“Yeah,” Anton says. “That’s right. I did.”
“You can do this!” I say. “Push through!”
He throws the ball again, this time it has some speed, but it goes wide. A few more passes and he’s getting closer to target. The referee blows his whistle. Three minutes to kickoff. I guess that will have to do.
Coach sends Anton and I out on the field for the coin toss. Two huge players from the other team, one of them is number 46, meet us out on the field. It’s as if their coach has sent them out to intimidate us.
“Heads,” Green calls with a confident smile. I watch the silver dollar flicker through the air and land on the grass—heads up.
The Titans decide to receive the kick. We will defend.
Anton and I head back to our team and gather around Coach. He nods at the Titans’ special teams as he unwraps a stick of cinnamon gum and shoves it in his mouth. Then he says to me, “Busby, if a tornado were about to touch down on the field, I do believe you’d find a way to take it down.”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
“Well, I got word that their tight end, number 23, is fast, so be ready. I’m sending you out there too. We can’t let the Titans get a touchdown on their first drive. Find a way to stop him.”
His breath is all cinnamon and red hot, but his words are calm and cool.
I head out onto the field, but when I see that Green is heading out there too, I realize that there may be more than one tornado I need to stop.